


i wish we were lovers, but it's for the best.

by faehunting



Series: who put these bodies between us? [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Captain America: The First Avenger, Catholic Guilt, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Period Typical Attitudes, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, World War II, it is.........the Yearning, kind of a bummer tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27842281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faehunting/pseuds/faehunting
Summary: The weather’s starting to turn, the temperature dropping. Soon the frost will set in.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: who put these bodies between us? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1406548
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	i wish we were lovers, but it's for the best.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arcusroll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcusroll/gifts).



> unrelated to the first work in this series other than it is based off the bittersweet feelings i get listening to [calculation theme - metric](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lIJyNaLNJsE). sorry about the bummer! this is unbetaed and was written in the spaces between studying for finals. 
> 
> as always, for arcusroll, for talking to me about this series at length while i was struggling through a 16 hour shift and making me fall in love with this pairing. i will never forgive u.

They’re in the middle of nowhere, again. They’re always in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dirt and crumbling stone and stunted, broken trees. Steve has gotten used to it, but the emptiness catches him wrong sometimes. Makes him ache for Brooklyn, for the crush of people. The smells of garbage, hot concrete, twelve different brands of cigarettes burning at once. The relief of incense wafting through the church doors, fragrant smoke curling upwards in the cool, echoing vault of the nave. That comfort and familiarity are so far away from the Western Front, which is too full and too empty by turns. 

Camp is set up in a meadow today, the firepit and supplies tent obscured in the treeline. The Howling Commandos’ tents are forty feet away, close enough to the tree cover. They’re arranged in a ragged semicircle and nestled into the mud, the long grass. The supple give of the ground adds extra cushioning to the bed rolls. In comparison to the tree roots and rocks they’ve been sleeping on, it feels like a feather bed. 

But the weather’s starting to turn, the temperature dropping. Soon the frost will set in. They won’t be able to take advantage of the soft earth for much longer. 

They’re on their usual watch rotation: Dugan on first, then Jones, Dernier, Falsworth, Morita, Rogers. Barnes on the last watch, always. The rest of them wake to a lit fire that way, to hot breakfast and watery coffee and Bucky’s creased, tired eyes. 

Steve hates when it’s time to wake Bucky for his watch. Bucky’s thin now, worn spare from lack of rations, lack of sleep. He’s tried to take Bucky’s watch, but Bucky gets quietly furious with him. Gives him the cold shoulder, glares over the collar of his coat. Steve tries to be sweet when he’s waking Bucky up, instead.

It’s easy, with no one there to witness it. It’s easy to be soft, to rouse Bucky with a gentle voice, squeeze his shoulders with gentle hands. He’s seen the way Bucky twists in his sleep, trying to squirm away from whatever is tormenting him behind his eyelids.

Bucky’s already awake this morning, when Steve crawls into their tent. Eyes slit open as he watches Steve through his eyelashes. He looks welcoming, stretched out in his bedroll, head tipped back, throat exposed. It’s almost a shame when he gets up, pushing away all that softness. 

They don’t talk, communicating with glances and expressions instead. Steve digs out his warm gloves. Bucky pulls his peacoat on, rubs at his eyes with his knuckles. 

Twin plumes of breath emerge from the tent opening, translucent in the waning moonlight. They walk together in the darkness of the early morning, shoulders brushing. The sun won’t start to rise for another hour at least, but Steve won’t be able to fall asleep again. 

He’ll lay in his cold bedroll and think about Bucky if he tries. Better to be with him instead, to have his eyes on the real thing instead of the tempting heat of the imagined one. The Bucky with affectionate hands and a hot gaze, locked away behind Steve’s eyelids. Where it’s safe to think. Where it’s safe to reach out and touch. 

Steve doesn’t think about it a lot anymore. Not like when he was a kid, when he couldn’t keep his hands off himself, couldn’t keep his eyes off the growing body of his best friend. Not since he got big, when they threw him into Vaudeville with all the USO girls. Punching Hitler onstage and leaning into wandering hands in the dressing room. 

He doesn’t think about it, except for when he’s idle. When he’s feeling lonely. When easy domestic comfort seems like something he made up in an old dream. When the distance between himself and Peggy feels insurmountable. Miles of separation, of bullet-pocked earth. 

That’s the only time he thinks about it, furtive and guilty. The way Bucky might feel against him. The way Bucky might taste.

Bucky starts prepping the fire, chipping at dry pieces of wood, making thin slivers of tinder. He builds the frame of it, the bundle of tinder tucked inside a little lean-to of kindling. He sits back once it’s finished, unlit, waiting for the sun to lighten the sky. He leans against Steve’s shoulder, blowing hot breath into the cup of his bare hands. 

Steve wants to take them in his, to rub warmth into Bucky’s cold fingers, hold his callused hands in his lap. He doesn’t move, tries to wave the thoughts away instead. He watches Bucky briskly scrub his hands together. He creates a little warmth from friction before balling them up, shoving them in the pockets of his peacoat. 

Bucky is watching the treeline, but Steve isn’t on watch anymore. He’s free to look at Bucky for as long as he wants, in this private quiet before the dawn. He closes his eyes instead. He doesn’t think about it. He’s not supposed to think about it. Even when he was small, he shouldn’t have thought about it. 

But he had thought about it, back then. His thin chest against Bucky’s. The way they’d fit. The differences between their bodies. At least then it would’ve made sense if he was an invert. But he had sat in confessional at twelve, at fourteen, at twenty-two. Bony thighs pressed into the hard bench. Packing thoughts and feelings down into the bottom of his chest. Choking on the weight of unnatural desire.

He is big, now. Strong, capable, healthy. Women actively pursue him, smile and roll their shoulders back like predators. And still, all that unwanted desire is thick at the back of his throat. Choking him, always. 

Bucky nudges his shoulder and Steve starts, eyes flying open, mouth soft in surprise. Bucky’s leaning forward like he’s worried Steve’s going to fall backwards. His hands are out as if he had to stop himself from grabbing Steve’s arms, from steadying him. 

“You should get some rest,” Bucky says, finally breaking the silence. His voice is quiet and sleep roughened. It always sounds like this when Bucky wakes up. Steve knows. They’ve spent most of their lives sleeping next to each other.

Steve wants to taste it, wants to roll that gravelly sound in his mouth and over his tongue. He swallows the impulse. It goes down rough, past the sticky lump of want. 

“I’m not tired,” he says. Bucky doesn’t look pleased with his answer, but he looks away regardless.

Steve watches Bucky’s profile as morning light creeps in and cuts through the night. The thoughts wind around him and constrict until his chest feels tight. He’s lightheaded, fingers twitching to reach out and touch. There’s nothing arousing about the mud, about the smell of unwashed bodies and gear on the cool air. He’s not aroused, but his palms are still itching for Bucky’s skin under them. None of his usual tactics are working today, nothing works to lessen the impact of his unsavoury thoughts.

He can do it, usually. Shake it off, ignore it. He doesn’t think about this anymore. 

But there is something different about this morning. Something tender and aching about the quiet bubble they’re caught in. Something soft about the round wetness of Bucky’s eyes, the shape of his mouth when his lips aren’t pressed together in stress and frustration. Bucky’s breath seems louder today, or maybe Steve is more focused on the close, quiet details that have built up between them in the quiet of the morning. 

There is a bird singing in the distance, a mournful, haunting sound. It echoes in his ears. Steve shuts his eyes again and sees Bucky’s pale body laid out in his bedroll, an hour ago that may as well be a lifetime. He tries to keep himself from imagining how it might have been different today. What it might have felt like to slot his own body against Bucky’s sleep-warm skin. 

“Steve,” he says again. There’s a whine to his voice that Steve hasn’t heard since before Bucky got drafted. A wheedling, gentle manipulation to get Steve to do what Bucky wanted. It was usually for Steve’s benefit. Something in his chest aches knowing that Bucky still wants to take care of him like this, that he does it in the same way he’s always done. Like it’s a favour to Bucky, to keep himself out of trouble, to take care of himself. 

“Yeah, Buck?” Steve says, voice low in the cold air. He opens his eyes slowly. Bucky is watching him, chewing on his lower lip. His eyes look huge and dark while dawn creeps its way into the sky. 

“Is something wrong?” he asks, leaning in. “Are you okay?” Bucky puts his big, rough hand on Steve’s knee. It looks wrong somehow, like Steve’s body has changed too much, like he doesn’t fit around Bucky’s familiar contours, the established shape of him. Steve sets his hand over Bucky’s, curls his fingers under and holds on. He wants to make them fit again with a sudden desperation he doesn’t understand. 

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says. He licks his lips. “Yeah, I’m okay.” Bucky gets the wounded look that he always gets when Steve lies to him. Steve almost misses it. He can’t stop looking at the curve of Bucky’s lower lip. There’s a tension building. Steve can feel it pressurizing the air around them. He knows Bucky can feel it too. 

“Steve,” Bucky says again. It’s quieter this time, barely a breath. Bucky moves closer. His hand moves from Steve’s knee, up his thigh. Steve’s hands are shaking. He squeezes his hand around Bucky’s wrist to make the trembling stop, the gesture gentle. Encouraging. He sees Bucky swallow hard in the half-light. “Steve.” 

Their mouths touch, skin to chapped skin. Something in Steve’s stomach starts scrabbling, little claws desperate and sharp against the soft tissues. Bucky licks his lips and kisses him again. The saliva makes their lips cling from one kiss to the next. 

Steve’s hands are on Bucky’s chest, moved without conscious thought. His fingertips are trembling on the hard line of Bucky’s collarbone, on the exposed hollow of his throat. 

Bucky breaks the kiss. He presses his forehead to Steve’s cheek. They are pressed together from knee to shoulder, ankles hooked together. All of Steve’s insides are coiled tight and hot, anxious and needy. The loss of Bucky’s mouth gives his thoughts room to start racing. There is a part of him that insists he is disgusted with himself, despite the tingling warmth he’s steeped in. Despite the giddy beating of his heart. 

Steve makes eye contact with Bucky and feels tears prick behind his eyes. He turns away from Bucky’s beloved face, from the vulnerability there, the cautious hope. He stares at the treeline instead. 

Steve pulls away and lets cold morning air flood the hot, tender space they made between them. He thinks about previous kisses, kisses with women. They’re only made notable by the fact that he hadn’t thought of them. Buried by the taste of Bucky’s mouth, his careful hands. Dug back up by guilt and quiet misery. 

Bucky leans against Steve’s shoulder. He mirrors Steve’s posture, looks out at the trees. His hands are on his knees, clenched tight in the fabric. Bucky takes a deep breath. When he lets it out, it’s barely visible. He loosens his grip from his trousers, rubs the side of his hand against Steve’s. 

Steve turns his head at the sensation. He looks at Bucky without saying anything. His chest feels like it’s too small to fit everything in it, pulling the skin tight across his bones, too full of jumbled emotions, desires, regrets. 

“I love you,” says Bucky, into the silence. “I’ve always loved you.” He doesn’t make eye contact. He doesn’t breathe once he says it, but Steve’s breath hitches deep in his chest. Steve wants to ask him, to beg him, to say it again. Say it again. Tell me what I am to you. 

He doesn’t. Bucky should never have said it in the first place. 

Steve doesn’t say anything. His eyes are wet. His hands are still shaking, so he clasps them tight between his knees. Bucky hauls himself to his feet and walks away into the dawn, disappearing into the treeline. 

Steve doesn’t know that Bucky will be dead soon, with a few months and a long, agonizing drop through the falling snow. He doesn’t know that now, but he knows that he will never hear Bucky say those words again.


End file.
